I. Author. 002

   Nearly every childhood memory of my father involves a book. On weekends, I'd wake up to find him frowning at the pages of a book. Sometimes, he laughed. Other times, I'd hear him sigh longingly. 
   At ten, I had no idea why. None of the books he read contained a single picture. Sometimes, even the cover had nothing more than a few lines of text. Boring.
   I recall a particular Sunday when the city lost power, which often happened, and Dad and I sat in the living room in the serenity of candlelight. 
   "This reminds me of Edmond Dantes." When I stared blankly at him, he added, "The Count of Monte Cristo."
   "Who?"
   For the next few hours, Dad told me this magnificent story of hope, justice, mercy, vengeance, and forgiveness. 
   When the power was restored, we shut the lights off and sat in the dark until Dad finished it. Throughout the narration, I rode an emotional roller coaster, captivated by every part of it, especially Edmond. 
   I asked Dad where he heard the story, and he took me to his study and pulled a leather bound book off the shelf. I watched as he smiled at the cover and carefully opened the gilded pages for me.
   "Books are portals that can take you on a journey to faraway lands, different eras, and incredible adventures."
   Alone in the study, I delicately flipped through each page, hoping to get a glimpse of Chateau d'If or the pirate ship Edmond took back to Paris, but I was foiled. I didn't even find the treasure map responsible from elevating Edmond into the Count of Monte Cristo.
   A month later, Dad left a thick book on my desk: Jules Verne's Dick Sand, A Captain at Fifteen. The cover promised an adventure I couldn't find illustrated in its pages. Dejected, I left it in my shelf, never expecting to read it.
   Enter Mom...
   Whatever I did, was bad enough to land me in solitary for a whole weekend according to Mom. I thought I had discovered a new soap by combining every cleaning solution and bar of soap in the house, but I tried to take comfort in the knowledge that many scientists were incarcerated because of their research. 
   Mom, my warden, took away my Legos and my radio as part of the grounding.
   The ensuing boredom reminded me of something in Edmond's plight. While prisoner, Edmond learned to read and write. He learned history, economics, and read every page from books an old man shared from his cell.
   I didn't think I'd learn anything by reading Dick Sand. I figured I'd get bored and fall asleep.
   I was wrong...
   I read my first Jules Verne novel in one sitting, and when I read the list of his other titles, I couldn't wait to get my hands on them.
   Not a single picture and yet, I heard the echo of Captain Nemo's voice aboard the Nautilus 20,000 leagues under the sea. I felt the unforgiving cold of the permafrost in Iceland as I followed the professor into the center of the earth. Just before taking a trip around the world in eighty days, I read The Count of Monte Cristo, and knew exactly why my father reacted so strongly. 
   While I read it, it hit me.
   I didn't know whether Alexander Dumas ever spent a day of his life in jail. But somehow, he placed me in the dank cells of Chateau d'If. He made me feel the desperation, the hopelessness...
   Jules Verne didn't live to see a submarine or an astronaut on the moon, but he took me on those adventures and the real life achievements of the human race meant all the more to me because of his vision.
   Dumas and Verne wrote what they saw in their minds! 
   The first time I had taken the initiative to create another Christmas story, it cost me recess for a week. Maybe I deserved it, for the story wasn't mine, but what if I made my own story? What if I created my own faraway land, my own era, my own incredible adventure?
   It was the first time I asked myself: What would it be like to write a book?

to be continued...

Who were the authors that inspired you to write?